Dead Man Walking
by The Lord Lash
Summary: A paranoiac teen runs to Sharo to avoid his problems... and finds himself in an even worse situation. In over his head, the only thing he can do now is walk. Crazy's not very far...
1. Week 1

Mac relaxed in the "shotgun seat", shoes on the front dash, seat in the reclining postion. Dressed in a common, dark-colored t-shirt and jogging pants, he was starting to look like a local.

His hair was long, flipped to one side, as if he were Aaron Bruno.

"I thought we were fighting against dealers."

The voice was James', but it was coming from Mac's mouth.

Mac yawned. "We are."

"So why are we running?"

"We're professionals." Mac said, staring into traffic. "We get packages from A-Z, without getting stopped, and without opening. We don't know who our clients are, and we don't care. Documents, letters, gifts - as long as my fee is paid, I don't care what's inside."

There was an audible ding as the vehicle came to a halt.

Mac climbed out and tapped on the car. It was a silver, 2168 model Huanda Darter - or seemed to be, at least. The type of import that was on the road twenty years ago, and still humming around in parts of the country.

He opened the backdoor. Mac pulled a black backpack from the rear seat. Backpack in one hand, he pulled a red Hunter-VG from a side pocket. He swiped through a series of screens. The car disappeared.

Mac checked a map on the Hunter, before slipping it back into the backpack pocket. Zwiiip.

"Right, off we go."

Mac started down a sidewalk. The young blades of grass were a rich green, a stark contrast to spring back home.

"Mac..."

"What?"

"... why are there runners? Shouldn't drones have replaced them?"

"Sharo banned drones from flight. Banned the sale and manufacture. They went quite privacy concious after the Poutine Affair."

"... oh."

The streets of downtown Sharo were an interesting affair. Old factories mingled with victorian-age housing, and modern skyscrapers. The planning was, decidedly, laisezz-faire. Classic communist design.

Down the street, there seemed to be a commotion.

Mac ducked into the alley.

* * *

><p>"Up we go."<p>

Mac eyed the fire escape of the apartment complex. If he wheeled a bin underneath, it would be a matter of jumping - and luck. The fire escape looked like it had last been touched 200 years ago.

The brakes on the large green bins were surprisingly easy to dis-engage. A push, and it was in place. Mac clambered atop it, and leapt for the ladder.

He caught on, with one hand. The bin slowly picked up speed, rolling out from beneath him. He gripped with a second hand, pulling himself up a rung. Grabbing the sides of the ladder, he "walked" up with his feet.

First platform, second story. Two more to go. A little wobbly, but the platform seemed to be holding. Mac started on the second ladder.

By the time he was on the second platform, the dumpster bin had made it into the street.

The third platform ended, it's top rail just four feet shy of the roof. Mac bit his lip, balancing delicately. He jumped, caught the inner lip, pulled himself up, scraping his arm in the process.

The gray gravel of the roof nearly matched the blue-gray of the sky above. Rain was coming, Mac knew. Despite the clouds, it was a nice 18 degrees celcius.

Mac sprinted, spotting a path from one roof to the other street.

Dak-dak-dak went his feet.

There was an almighty "BANG" as something smacked into the dumpster bin. What had started as a simple commotion would soon spread, possibly turning into a full-on panic.

The metro was on the other street, and that's where he was headed.

A side-street seperated the building he was on from the one he needed to go to. Eight feet across, clearly designed for a one-way.

Mac was going full-sprint when he reached the edge of his roof. He leapt, clearing the street. Wait, no, he crashed into the wall, luckily catching hold.

"Thank god for kneepads."

Again, Mac pulled himself up. The side-street seemed to be barricaded. Hopefully the metro was still open.

The front, public face of the building had a sloping roof over a veranda. It was an eighteen foot drop to that roof, but if he lowered himself from a window ledge-

Ten feet. Mac hit it with a roll, nearly slipping off entirely. The impact hurt, especially since it was sloped.

Mac crawled to the edge of the veranda roof, and dropped.

The street was deserted. The metro entrance loomed across the street, stairs headed underground. What else could he do? He crossed the street, and headed to the ticket-dispenser.

Coins. He luckily had enough, and the ticket printed almost instantly. Down another set of stairs (and through a pass-checker), the station platform.

The lighting was flickery, the concrete covered in graffiti. The station had been built 150 years ago - and it showed.

* * *

><p>An hour later, the doors opened, Mac spilling out into Slavyansky Bulvar Station.<p>

The station was crowded, people moving in and out, a constant stream in all directions. It was always this way, had been since it was renovated just twelve years.

Mac went with the flow, up a set of escalators, and onto the street. A shopping district - a mall dead ahead, and a parkade behind the subway entrance.

Mac headed for the parkade, jogging along the broad sidewalk. The sidewalk continued past the toll-booth, and into the parkade proper. A handful of people were meandering down.

Into the parkade, and toward the elevator.

Mac tapped the button. The doors slid opoen. He stepped in, and hit (6). The doors closed, and it started up.

When the doors opened, Mac strode out. There was another level to this yet, but he wasn't headed for it. No, he was headed toward the far corner of the F-section.

A figure on a black moped waved.

Mac took off the backpack, and pulled out the black lunch box.

"Take it from here."

Mac pulled out the red Hunter-VG, and tapped a series of buttons.

It was time to head back to the hostel.


	2. Week 2

"The end is coming."

Mac spoke matter-of-factly, coolly perched on a rock above the waterfall. Or surrounded by the waterfall. Fifty feet below, the water was churning, spraying white foam in all directions. Behind him, the water continued rushing.

"Death. It's funny. Here I am, a dead man already. Surrounded by the dead, struggling with the dead."

"Quit talking like that, Mac."

Even thousands of miles away, sealed in a data card, James was still a pain. At this point, Mac wasn't sure if it was in his head, or if James really was talking with him. He no longer cared.

"Look. Blue Rose is after us, and I can't stay underground for long. There's only one way out. We're going ghost."

"Mac..."

"I know. We'll pay a visit to the saint. It's the least we can do."

"... I don't think we're on the same page here." James sounded worried, cautious. Warning.

"I don't think we're on the same continent."

"... Mac. Listen."

Mac stood up, reaching into a pocket. "Oh, look, a new message. Let's see what it is, shall we?"

Mac fiddled with the old transer, typing into the on-screen keyboard.

"You're not weak. Neither is Juan. You've left him in a bad spot - you dropped the stuff and ran. Who do you think Blue Rose will target? You have to stick together..."

"Bullhockey. It's impossible to be everywhere at the same time."

"... Mac."

"Yeah, I know. We're going back. We have unfinished business... Oh, and another run to make."

* * *

><p>Pickup.<p>

"A dozen black tulips, a dozen white tulips." Mac mumbled, staring at the entrance to the floral shop. Snowflakes danced around him, a reminder of nature's fickleness. A well-beaten, almost ancient Lada interrupted his vision.

"... whatever."

Mac crossed the street. Why was he running errands? He was a courier, not a shopping assistant. He didn't care for the answer now. Answers wouldn't pay the bills.

Besides, The Enterprise didn't like questions.

Mac opened the door, stepping inside.

The floral shop was quite bare. There were no flowers, no floral arrangements. Just a desk, and a bell. The clock on the wall had dust on it. The desk's counter looked like something from the 80s - the 1980s.

Apart from that, the place seemed well kept.

Mac rang the bell.

A door opened, and a white-haired man stepped into the room. Mac noted the black turtleneck sweater and a yellow scarf.

"Доброе утро" the man said.

Mac returned the greeting.

"I need a specific arrangement - a dozen black tulips, and a dozen white."

The man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Simply retreated into the back room.

"... creepy." Mac muttered.

The man returned with a black briefcase, locked. Mac looked at it for a moment - and then shrugged.

"Ah, ah." said the man, producing a pair of handcuffs. "Don't lose it."

Mac eyed the man, and then extended a wrist. Clack. Clack. Whether this security theatre was truly warranted, Mac didn't know. With the briefcase chained to and occupying his right hand, his mobility was now rather limited.

"Time is of the essence." the man said, pointing to the door

* * *

><p>"Mac..."<p>

"Yeah, I know. This is insane."

"No. Company."

Mac glanced at the side mirror of the bike. Indeed, he had company. With one hand tied to the steering, his quick-ditch options were limited. He'd have to win this by sheer skill alone.

Four bikes, eight riders. Somebody'd sent in the cavalry.

Just what was so valuable about this?

Mac should have guessed when he accepted the assignment. Nobody offers high pay for a simple delivery. But he really needed that money...

... it could pay for a flight both ways, and still cover some bills.

Evidently they needed that briefcase, because they were driving like bats out of hell.

Up ahead, traffic was getting tighter.

The speedometer read 110km/hr, and was rapidly increasing.

Mac threaded around a slow car, and looked for his options ahead.

There was a semi hauling portable toilets, heading the opposite direction.

"... Mac..."

"Yeah, don't damage the bike. I know."

Mac started veering to the left, getting as close to the Semi's lane as possible. He reached his left hand out, extending it. "James, now."

His sword appeared in his hand.

The whole line of portable toilets fell behind him as he passed, wreaking havoc on traffic. With luck, he'd have bought a few seconds - maybe even ten.

The sword disappeared as he looked in the rear view. Yup, it was going to be a good old disgusting mess alright.

Mac took a turn to the left.

There was a city bus ahead he could use as cover if he could get in front of it. By now, his speedometer was reading 160(km), and the wind was freezing his exposed neck. The helmet at least, was shielding him from the worst of things.

The parking lot of the library was empty.

Mac cut across, turning right.

Dead end; the road stopped, leading into a steep hill. There was a river ahead.

Mac kept going.

Brush up ahead. A walking path skirted the river's edge. Mac turned hard, right, onto the path.

A bridge loomed ahead, above the path.

"Thirty minutes." James said.

* * *

><p>"Made it."<p>

Mac started unwrapping his arm from the handlebar, eyes on the open-doored church ahead. Petals littered the stairs, covering the red carpet with white. He finally pulled himself free, leaping off the bike - he hoped the lawn would be okay - and into the church.

A man in a black robe pulled him aside into the coatroom.

"Get it off."

The man produced two keys, removing the handcuffs from the briefcase, and unlocking the briefcase itself.

"This off." Mac said, tapping his wrist.

The man shrugged, and removed the handcuff. "Go now, for you are not wanted here."

Mac shrugged, and produced the red Hunter from his other pocket. "Sign."

The man scribbled. Mac took back the Hunter, and nodded.

He was out of here.

"... so. Confirmed?"

"Yes." Mac replied, lifting the motorbike into a standing position. "Cana assignment complete."


	3. Week 3

"The name's Bond... James Bond."

Mac examined the newcomer. The newcomer was dressed in a midnight blue dinner jacket, matching pants, white shirt, and an askew bowtie. The newcomer had ginger hair, and a spanish accent.

"Ezio Auditore, at your service." Mac bowed with a flourish.

"Cards?"

Mac shrugged and followed the newcomer to an empty table. A stack of cards sat in the middle of the green felt-topped table. The chairs were, luckily, leather office chairs, obviously out of place, but oh-so-welcome.

A third joined them, a tall figure figure with a basket, white shirt, blue-polka dotted dress, and blond pigtails. "Who deals?"

Mac shrugged again.

Bond slapped a coin on the table. "Call, Dorothy."

"Heads."

Bond flicked the coin in the the air. It twirled and turned, landing with a muffled thunk. "Deck's yours." conceded Bond.

"So..."

"James..."

"Yes?" Bond prompted, raising an eyebrow.

The sound of cards expertly shuffled was unmistakable.

"... what do you do?"

"Mutual fund management. Why do you ask?"

Mac shrugged again.

"Are we playing poker or twenty questions?" Dorothy cut in.

Mac waved his hand toward the deck. Bond nodded, producing a small case full of tokens. Mac matched, sorting out his own stack of chips.

* * *

><p>"Raise."<p>

Mac narrowed his eyes. Four cards already on the table. The pot seemed to dwarf the player piles.

"Four hundred."

Mac bit his lip.

"Call."

Dorothy finished the betting round. The fifth card - the river - was flopped. A 10 of hearts.

Mac swallowed. "Raise, five hundred."

Bond smirked. "Raise, six hundred."

Both eyed Dorothy, who seemed to be physically weighing her cards. "Fold."

Now Dorothy and Bond were eyeing Mac.

Mac flipped a card over. Jack, clubs. He flipped the second over. Queen - hearts.

Bond flipped both, simultaneously. Queen, spades. Jack, diamonds.

Mac let out a sigh of relief. "That was close... a little too close for comfort."

Bond assented.

Dorothy gathered her remaining chips, a spent look on her face. "I'm out - see you around."

Bond turned to Mac.

"I think a break would be good. I'll walk, too."

Then, there was Mac, alone, surrounded by a his chips. He counted the chips silently, his case getting more and more full. "Hmm, not a bad profit." Mac noted, standing up from the table.

There were two other tables in the room, and they looked full.

A bald-headed man in a suit caught Mac's eye. Red tie, black gloves... like an Agent. When the man looked up, Mac started to walk out of the room. A man in black sunglasses and a trenchcoat passed him.

"James, what."

"Is this how you pass your time? Going around in a costume, playing childish games, leaving your friends to hang?"

"How do you think we're going to get back? Tickets don't pay for themselves."

"This is hardly earning money."

"You're right. That's why we have a job tonight."

Mac turned the hallway. The red carpet, white walls, all seemed too clinical, bare of life. An elevator loomed at the end of the hall, past a dozen hotel room doors. The doors opened as Mac approached it.

"What kind of job?"

"We'll find out."

The doors closed. Mac pushed a button. The elevator started to descend.

"Mac?"

"Yeah."

"I'm worried. You don't seem to be yourself."

Mac shook his head slowly.

* * *

><p>"High five!"<p>

Mac raised a hand towards a figure in blue power armor. The figure's face was hidden behind a yellow visor, masking expression. The figure slowly raised a hand-

- and Mac struck, landing a palm above the figure's heart.

"Point."

Mac ducked into the milling crowd, weaving through the lobby. Even though the lobby was huge, it was packed. People in costume filled the place, making it look like a popular online crossover server.

It was loud, too. Gloriously loud.

Mac made his way to the main doors.

More people were coming. Some were leaving, like him. Mac continued to the street. More people were walking around - as far as eye could see. It stretched blocks.

In his Assassin outfit, he was right at home.

Teletubbies and care bears swirled past as he made his way down the street. He was a man on a mission - get in, get out, go somewhere else, wait. The get in part was simple, in theory.

Mac walked into the lobby of another hotel.

The get out part, that would be tricky.

But first - the package.

A bulky man in green blocked his way as he went in. Mac scanned for an opening - there was none. He'd have to go- straight through. He gritted his teeth, ducked. Started forward. The man turned. Mac was pinned, in a way. Trapped between here and there.

Mac lifted his shoulder into the man's groin. Instant reaction.

And like that, he was off, and into the crowd.

Destination? The roof. Waypoint? The "Glass Tube" elevator.

The elevator was coming down, and it looked packed. Like a can of sardines, but all individually dressed before getting crammed in.

By the time he'd made it there, the elevator had already started upwards. Two options now, wait, or head for the hallways.

He opted to stay on the move.

The hallways had black carpeting and tangerine walls. Mac counted eight hallways going from the lobby - two in each direction. Traffic thinned out at the edges, allowing him to slip into a hallway in relative peace.

"So, up we go."

Mac raced toward the end of the hallway, making for the elevator like a bat out of hell.

"403... 403..."

* * *

><p>Room 403.<p>

Somebody had set up a full billiards table in there. The only other furniture were two barstools, weathered and beaten. What happened to the beds, the chairs? Nobody seemed to know, or care.

A figure in a black robe waved.

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted." Mac said.  
>The figure replied. "Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent."<br>"Hide in plain sight."  
>"Never compromise The Brotherhood."<p>

The figure extended a hand, a key inside. "Locker 21, exercise room C."

Mac took the key.

* * *

><p>"Lightning god, huh?"<p>

Mac sat at the poker table, chips mounting in a pile. Across him, a figure in a gray, curved jumpsuit - with shoulder-length white hair - and beside him, a man in tattered remains of a white suit.

"And you're..." Mac asked the dirty-looking man.

"Trinity."

"Trinity?"

"Uh huh. Right hand of the devil."

Dorothy took a seat at the table, filling it out to four.

"You know the rules. Hold'em, No Limits." white-hair said. "We'll let Trinity deal."

Trinity took his time shufffling. It started innocently. He cut the decks in half, folded them into each other, but it went from there. Then he started tossing the deck, slinky-style, between his hands. He swirled them across the table like dominos. He cleaned them up, split the decks, folded them in again.

Trinity dealt the cards, a bored expression on his face.

Mac checked his cards. 7 of spades, Queen of hearts. Not bad.

But not all that great. Mac called, place a chip worth 10. Raiden folded. Dorothy raised - 20. Trinity called.

The flop came.

7 hearts. 7 diamond. Queen spades.

Mac called, nudging forward another two chips. Dorothy called. Trinity raised - to forty.

Turn time. King of diamonds.

Mac called. Dorothy called. Trinity called.

River.

Five of clubs.

Mac raised - three hundred. Dorothy folded. Trinity called.

Mac flipped his cards.

Trinity slowly turned his over. 10 hearts, King spades.

Mac collected the pot.

Trinity shrugged, with a careless grin on his face.

Trinity gathered the cards, shuffled, and handed the deck to Mac.

Mac dealt the cards, checking his last. Queen spade, Jack diamond.

Raiden raised to fifty. Dorothy called. Trinity called. Mac called.

The flop came. Queen hearts, 3 spades, Jack clubs.

Raiden raised again - to eighty. Dorothy folded. Trinity called. Mac called.

The turn. Jack, hearts.

Mac slowly stared at each and every player. Trinity. Raiden. Trinity. Dorothy. Raiden. Somebody here would win - the question is, would it be the raiser or the silent?

Raiden raised to one hundred. Trinity called. Mac called.

The river. King, spades.

Raiden raised to one fifty. Trinity folded. Mac called.

Raiden flipped his cards. Ace heart, Jack spade.

Mac flipped his. Queen spade, Jack heart. A full house, Jacks full of Queens.

Mac raked in the pot, and then stood up.

Napoleon crossed the room. Mac narrowed his eyes. Was this his assassin, or was this the package recipient?

"Ave caeser. Te mortuni salutant."  
>"This is sparta" countered Mac<br>"From a single zero, two."

Mac conceded the package, and extended a hand. Napoleon took it.

"To future affairs." Napoleon said, releasing.

Then Napolean struck. "Point."


End file.
